An Evening with Jack Shaftoe

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“Oh. Right.”

There’s a sound of rustling, and a metallic sound; then a fingertip, greased and slippery, is tracing round the flared rim of Jack’s prick. Jack thrusts forward for more contact, but the teasing finger retreats.

“Shh. Wait. Touch yourself, Jack, while you’re waiting for me; ‘cos that’s what I’m doing. Touching myself.”

It’s perversely arousing to know what the bloke’s really doing. Not touching his cock, like any normal man would. But pushing his greased fingers inside himself; readying himself for Jack. For fucking. For Jack, fucking. Jack tries to quiet his breathing, and be still; he’s listening for the sound of those slick fingers. Instead he hears movement, and a low purring growl, and then his hand’s taken and tugged and placed on the warm, round, hard flesh of Jack Sparrow’s buttock, taut and delicious because the man’s already leaning over that barrel, bare-arsed in the dark, slicked and ready.

“Come on, Jack. Come on. Give it to me.”

Oh God. Oh God. Giddy with want, Jack positions himself behind Sparrow, taking hold of the man’s hip with one hand, his own cock with the other. Sliding his prick along the luxurious, oiled valley, once, twice, three times, till he’s sure of his target, and then – oh, carefully – pressing in.

They gasp in unison; Sparrow laughs, groans. “Oh, yeah. Wait a moment, just a moment, just – oh, yeah.”

And then Jack’s in. He’s in, deep and dirty, hot and tight and slick and wickedly good. He’s wide-eyed and blind, nothing connecting him to the world except the dirt beneath his feet and the vicious grip of Jack Sparrow’s body round his cock. It’s unbelievably fine. He thrusts, and Sparrow wails – Jack freezes – and Sparrow mutters, “No, no, ‘s’good, don’t stop, don’t!”

So Jack doesn’t. Again and again and again he rams in, till there are colours swirling out of the blackness, a bloody roaring thrum filling his ears. Now faster, now slower; now standing tall, now draped over Sparrow’s spine, and Sparrow’s undulating beneath him, gasping, urging, demanding. Honest and real and hotter than the Spanish sun, and in the end, the sweet inevitable end, it’s no sense of fairness or reciprocity, just the sharpest want, that makes Jack reach down and take Sparrow’s cock in hand. Sparrow cries out, and then there’s wet heat spurting on Jack’s palm; and when Jack comes it’s like a sunburst, bright and gorgeous and filling up the whole world.

END...

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